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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308059">Green Anise</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blagtiwitenois/pseuds/blagtiwitenois'>blagtiwitenois</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pink Floyd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Absinthe, Alcohol, Gen, Hangover, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, POV Second Person, Present Tense, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Transformation, Welcome To the Machine, Why Did I Write This?, With A Twist, help me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:01:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308059</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blagtiwitenois/pseuds/blagtiwitenois</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You go to a small but populated bar, encountering a strange woman. She gives you a more-than-questionable drink, and only in her hasty exit do you realise something's wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Green Anise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Decided to deviate with a short work, found it enjoyable. Based off a number of creepy dreams I had along the same premises and ending... Oh God, the ending.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>You're looking for a change here, in this miscellaneous bar. A swap in the scenery of a droll life such as yours, in its lacklustre routine. Despite the fact you wanted to confidently step out of your comfort zone, you can't help but feel nervous around all these people, who seem exorbitantly extroverted, drunk, and/or joyous. You're a mere newcomer, in fact new to the whole concept of bar socialisation. You tenuously manoeuvre around, the strange and alienating smells of alcohol filling the air. You're not here for a drink, just looking to observe all this partying, or maybe talk to someone quieter. Some boring, generic music (smooth jazz, Ed Sheeran, Neil Diamond, 80's David Bowie... you can't tell) floats through the air, picked by someone... off the jukebox! You feel a bit of excitement for once, seeing the machine. No matter how hideous or aesthetically pleasing you find it, the only thing determining its worth is if it has music by the Floyd. However, as one of your favourite bands tends to have prog-length songs, you toil and concern over the analogue (CD-only) selection. Shuffling a bit closer, hearing the reigning music of some bastard's choice enter its hundredth repeated chorus, you see nobody waiting for the song to end. Unusual anticipation creeps up on you, your heartbeat picking up. It's nearly like you took a shot already, the anticipatory chemicals feathering at your brain. Pink Floyd, the hundred-per cent pure ethanol of music.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The song dies, allowing you to reach into your pocket and feel around for spare change, finding a quarter. You can feel your eyes light up like a hyena at a carcass as you fish out the coin. You hold up the gleaming metal between your middle and pointer finger to your face, and insert it into the slot, convinced that Pink Floyd is lying somewhere in this machine. Looking at the dense list, artists in alphabetical order, you scan it up and down. P, p, p, where is P...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Found P. Now, Pi.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Pi, pi, pi...!</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Pink Floyd-- Your eyes scan rightwards, reading the song.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Welcome to the Machine.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>You look down, to your dismay only finding the Pixies' Caribou. No other song selections? You were hoping to play a less soundscaped song, but you're already in the thrall, in the grip of temptation. Well, nevermind that, you'll expose this bar to two epic synthesizer solos. Clearing your throat in lingering self-consciousness (not that anyone will hear you), you find the physical copy of the song, and press the button. Only ambience follows, your trepidation and anticipation merging as you wait. The bar didn't care about September Morn (as you now know that other song to be), but they will hear this. Who even put it in here in the first place? It isn't bar music in the slightest. You begin anxiously tapping your foot, pursing your lips and sighing as you look around, beginning to distance yourself from the jukebox so you won't be identified as the initiator of it. With that excitement wearing off, you speculate the machine is likely broken. No fair, they were probably playing Zeroes and Shape of You all night before you came. You sigh. Whatever, you think, as you eye the exit obscured by the many people standing and stumbling around. Some kind of mechanical humming is growing in intensity from somewhere-</p>
</div><div>
  <p>-BZZZT, sounded the introduction of the song you chose, and all the metallic sound effects following. The ecstatic feeling realised, it suddenly animates you, makes your mind spin in a gyroscopic fashion. The oscillating synthesizers enter in a wonderful, terrifying fashion, the sound much louder than Neil Diamond. The regular sounds of people become arrhythmic as they realise what exactly is going on, slowing and quieting further in bewilderment. You feel the awkwardness creep up your limbs, but you don't know their reaction yet. And, fortunately, they don't know who offset this song, that being you. Yet, it's becoming more and more difficult to mask expressing intended emotions of the song, which are also slithering through your extremities. Your fingers writhe and interlace, waiting impatiently for you to let go.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The synthesizer begins travelling left to right, visibly disorienting those who have indulged on a fair bit of alcohol. You have a sheepish look plastered on your face, and you see a woman staring at you knowingly. You nonverbally beg by putting a desperate finger to bared teeth.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She shrugs as more aurally simulated doors open, followed by David Gilmour's lovely dramatic strums. Once, twice, thrice...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He starts crying out hoarsely, backing track following flat. The various kinds of electronics shine and whir as the guitar pulls you along. The scale climbing, then an outbreak of harsh synthesizer. Another scaling... you look around, to find that some are disturbed and confused by the loud noises, cymbals and high-pitched sines, the intense percussion.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The non-musical silence is death.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>What did you dream?</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>It's all right, we told you what to dream!</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>You dreamed of a big star,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>He played a mean guitar.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The verse continues, followed by the first synthesizer, which is varying degrees of euphoric as it soars like the metal bird, then the second swooping and humming viciously-</p>
</div><div>
  <p>An abrupt stop, as the whirring resumes, fading into the recorded muttering and automatic doors fading out with sparse laughs, then footsteps walking away.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Silence.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Pure silence.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>At least nobody is looking at you, tucked away in a lone corner. You cross your arms and avert your eyes, trying to not look suspicious.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Just as the moment came, it was gone, and in the temporary nature of the bar made the moment fade. Back to normal in an instant, you made no impression. A little disappointing, maybe...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Hello," says a voice, and you turn around. It's the same woman who seemed to know what you were doing. "I presume you're the one that played that song. You freeze, but then reluctantly nod your head. "I really enjoyed it. Say, for that, you mind if I purchase a drink for you?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Uh-"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She gestures at the stool next to the one she was sitting at. "Come on, it won't hurt."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You shrug your shoulders. She doesn't seem that malicious, probably just the friendly type, and nondescript as that muffled Neil Diamond song. In the electric blue light and harsh black shadows, you can't tell her race, and she may be anywhere from 20-50. Her voice doesn't give anything away, either, abnormally distant but still comprehensible. Yet... looking at others, you can easily distinguish facial features and the like, but this woman here is physically vague in every way possible.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You smile, awkward yet polite, wanting to get out of here already. She calls over the bartender.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"One shot of absinthe for me, one for them," she says, jabbing her silhouetted thumb at you.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"They have absinthe here?" you ask as the bartender accepts her request and leaves, reminiscing on the pale green liquid you had only heard about from times of antiquity. It was said that Van Gogh was a chronic drinker of the stuff.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"As a matter of fact, they do. It's a secret," she replies, a wide flash of distinct, white teeth eerily pasted onto her unfocused visage.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Wait-" she points over your shoulder, you following her hand. "Look- look there, see..." she just kind of trails off. "Nevermind."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You turn your head back to look at her, brow furrowed. "What was it?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, nothing," she says, that increasingly unsettling grin fluorescing again. "Come on, let's drink."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You nod slowly, and look at the drink reflecting the blue. You can't see that it's green, for obvious reasons, but you take the glass in your hand anyway. The woman's glass, like her teeth, contrasts in detail against her undefined hand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"So... when do I drink this?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Well, now! What are you waiting for?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You sniff the drink, which smells strongly of anise and ethanol. Seems toxic, but nevermind that. Being the coward that you are, you take a cautious sip-</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Ack!" you splutter, expressing the extreme oral repulsion. You should've remembered that absinthe's main ingredient was wormwood, famously bitter. You feel the glass being raised to your mouth, not on your own accord, but of the woman's. Trying to protest, you are suddenly gagged by the taste of the spirit as it tips down your throat, a reflexive swallow following.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh- ah- Disgusting!" you cry, shaking your head in dismay, both at the taste and the notion of absinthe's presence in your system. "Is there any water?!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No," flatly states the woman. "It seems I have to go."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Hey, wait-"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She is a mere shadow, flickering amongst the crowd, and is out the door faster than you can blink. Standing up, you're mildly irritated that she had made you drink this gross shit, and then just <em>leave</em> like that. Jostling your way past people, not sidestepping them as when you first came in, you fight to the entrance, pushing the door open. A wave of cold air, abnormally cold, hits your face, you realising just how hot, humid, and dank it was in that bar. You're definitely not going back in there anytime soon.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Meanwhile, the woman could be getting away. You look all directions, but... there's nobody. Never mind, what exactly was the point of catching up to her? You take a deep breath, the icy winds of night much more refreshing than sweaty miscreant drunks. You need to get home. Beginning on the route there, rain begins to fall. The lampposts illuminate the patterns of swift and numerous descents, a halo of something unseen in the darkness. Something about the rain is mesmerizing, its consistent patter like an indistinct voice murmuring, or many noises. Everything warps, and shifts, and--</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You stop. Are you having perception distortions from a single shot of concentrated horribleness? You frown to yourself. There must have been something other than <em>la fée verte </em>in there... </p>
</div><div>
  <p>You resume walking, faster this time, and now concerned for your own well-being. Resolving to get home before anything serious sets in, you begin to run. The rain is no longer your friend, pelting you with admonishments, the murmurs becoming a mess of scolding noises. Everything is cold, burning, dizzy...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Getting to your house, you have little to no time to sigh in relief as you jam your hand into your coat pocket, inarticulately grabbing the keys and trying to find the right one. The problem is, it's getting harder to tell, and increasingly difficult to coordinate the insertion of a key into the door. Your hands are seizing up and shaking, you making a grimace of effort as you try each one. God, why is this so hard?!</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Your house key turned out to be the very last key on the keyring (yes, you in your disorientation tried the car key on the door), and you twist using the entirety of one arm, angrily twisting the knob and forcing the door open. A long sigh of exasperation, and you slam the door. A facepalm is executed, you groaning at your foolishness. You SHOULD have been suspicious when she tricked you into looking away, or should've just said <em>no</em> and left in the first place. Too late for that now, you suppose, exhaustion suddenly making you limp. You behold your comedically floppy wrist, then realise you can't lift it in the slightest. Feeling as if you're going to pass out in the middle of the living room, you stagger the rest of the way to your bed, collapsing on it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Yet, sleep does not come over you. As you lie there awake, you begin to feel bizarre sensations all over. Your eyes begin to itch, and you force your limp arm to try and respond to it. This only awkwardly juxtaposes your hand over your face, which itself begins to burn for no reason. Your scalp joins in on the un-fun, paresthesia like a hat. And then, the ice begins to form inside your bones, turning to a freezing ache that resides within the entirety of your skeleton. In reaction, you writhe slightly and turn over, trying to mask this unpleasant combination of temperatures and a somatic disservice. Facing towards the ceiling, you shut your eyes with a resolute scowl-</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ouch.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You are forced to open your eyes just to keep them from feeling like they're on fire. Your resentment towards the lady is growing by the second, as do your symptoms (clearly related to what she gave you). Fitful tossing and turning are set to consume the next hour or so, intravenous attempts at getting shut-eye resulting in painful rejection. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>After this horrid hour has passed, you've had enough.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"MY FUCKING GOD, JuST-" your voice cracks in the middle of hollering- "-LET ME SLEEP!" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Your throat starts itching madly, whatever God you just yelled at deciding to punish you further. Here you are, truly suffering, twisting and writhing like an impaled snake. At this point, you could just sleep on the ground, anything better than this-</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You roll off the bed, hitting the ground with a pronounced thud.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sleep... you need sleep... sweet, blessed sleep, a somniated state, unconscious.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Like you're dead.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Those nightmares could screech and drone and have you enact in horrific scenarios all they wanted, that being exactly what they did, but you slept! Not that you feel rested in any way whatsoever, but the sun is finally rising over your wasted body. It feels completely drained, immovable, as if you had suddenly become a horrible monster and were attempting to recuperate strength to simply move. It certainly feels that way, as you're contorted into a grotesque position with your face turned towards the underside of the bed, right arm twisted behind your back, left hand the only thing in view. The feeling of your legs happens to match a poorly-made knot, intertwined and tangled at a length you're suspicious of. Seriously, your legs have never felt this long, never meaning not ever, meaning you should check if something happened to your legs overnight. Overnight things, like the setting of gelatin, specific kinds of paint, or actual sleep...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Now, what could have possibly happened overnight? Maybe you had gotten over the effects of whatever poison that witch woman gave you, and now you're only left with a paralysing hangover. You're feeling a particular hatred for the world today. Yet, you conceptually grit your teeth and try to move a finger, the tricks of light making it off-colour, or maybe off-size, or maybe it just feels off in general. Suddenly aware of the somatic sensory details you're absorbing, there's something markedly wrong. Wrong there, wrong here, wrong everywhere in sensation and its correlated company. In your spatial awareness, in your peripheral vision, in your kinesthesia, an affliction has blighted everything, down to your very core.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You manage to move a finger, and yet you're not sure if you want to move at all. Paranoia has fallen in, and you worry that something drastic has occurred. The cruel gods seem to sense this, and your left hand is alive with previously attempted motion.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There- there! You can feel that something IS awry. Pivoting your hand into a vertical, front view display... What- who- whose hand is that?! </p>
</div><div>
  <p>With this horror smacking you in the face, you gasp for air, coordination of the self rushing in. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Wait, wait, wait, wait, WAIT!</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The-" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That's not your voice, either, not your teeth biting not your tongue to prevent not you from saying not your words. You shake out these legs, which are as unfathomably long as you thought. Not your clothes, either, black on black. This feeling of inhabiting an unknown body (or, vice-versa?) is squares and cubes worse than a shot of absinthe which originated the problem.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>You try to articulate the process of getting up, but this is really some monster, isn't it? </p>
</div><div>
  <p>You NEED to inquire the mirror.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>How could the simple act of standing be so difficult? It's all stilts!</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Please be a dream, please be a dream, please be a dream, please be a dream...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Even upright, you stagger around, attempting to process the overwhelming amount of information streaming in. Trying to direct these incorrigible legs to the mirror, you nearly drive into the wall. It's only a short distance farther, but...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>...You don't want to do this. You don't want to see what's in the mirror. Despite this, you manage to stop in front of the bathroom door, making the hand of this person twist the knob.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The door in the mirror flings itself open, you taking a moment to register that a mirror is an object that reflects things; therefore what you're staring at is...</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>You?</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>An unsettled and unsettling face stares back in shock, you and it recoiling at the sight of each other. The tangibility is further demonstrated by the hair in your face, which you try to vehemently brush off. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Fuck," Roger Waters mouths back.</p>
</div>
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